


The Young Prince of Dunwall

by skywardseanna17



Category: Dishonored (Video Game), Supernatural
Genre: Cas as the Outsider, Dean as Corvo, Dishonored AU, Eventual Smut, M/M, Sam as Emily kinda, eventual destiel, i have started another au oh god, starring me in the trash, video games - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-29
Updated: 2015-07-29
Packaged: 2018-04-11 21:59:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4453928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skywardseanna17/pseuds/skywardseanna17
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Supernatural/Dishonored AU</p><p>Dean Winchester is the disgraced protector of Dunwall, locked in Coldridge Prison for a crime he didn't commit: The murder of his mother, the Empress, and the subsequent kidnapping of his brother and first in line to the throne, Sam. Dean must find it in himself to rescue his brother and restore his honor with the "help" of a mysterious being from the void.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Young Prince of Dunwall

**Author's Note:**

> A Supernatural/Dishonored au, featuring art by http://voidalhoneybee.tumblr.com/ and myself, and we switch writing every chapter. This one's written by me!
> 
> We'll be posting a fair amount of stuff to our tumblrs as well if your interested: sean-shoots-at-nothing.tumblr.com, voidalhoneybee.tumblr.com

Ch1: Dishonored

Dean had been inside Coldridge Prison before, many times. As the royal guard to the empress and her heirs, it had been his duty and honor to dump any lame-ass second rate criminal who made an attempt on the lives of those who governed Dunwall between the layers of cement and iron that housed the city’s most hated criminals.

He never thought he’d end up on this side of the bars.

Blinking, Dean sat forward on the upturned bucket in his cell. Aside from the bucket, the only other furnishing was a pallet half-stuffed with what might have once been hay. Dean could see a swarm of some kind of bugs–roachier than ants–piling between a seam in the fabric and the hay.

Couldn’t sleep if I wanted to anyway, he thought. Not with all those burns on my back. The spymaster didn’t pull any punches when it came to torture.

It was almost admirable, how skilled the Spymaster was at his job. Which was torture, among other things. Spy things. Dean had been impressed at his skill, and he would have told the man so, if it hadn’t been for how he had almost swallowed his own tongue when the bastard pulled that poker out of the fire.

Every time he closed his eyes, the polite grin of Spymaster Michael swam before him, haunting the already-nightmarish images his mind conjured. Dean would have liked to say he had never liked the man, but he had always been charming and friendly to the Empress. She had trusted him, so why shouldn’t he?

I should have known, should have suspected….

Michael just wasn’t the kind of adviser you would expect to be behind the murder of the empress, and the kidnapping of her heir. But he was the man to have arranged it, and the subsequent capture and imprisonment of her bodyguard, who was found clutching the Empress’ body with her blood on his hands.   
Michael admitted to that as he carved and burned at Dean’s flesh, that same polite smile etched into his face.

“This country needs stronger leadership, don’t you agree, Dean?”

Come to think of it, in hindsight perhaps they should have been on the lookout for deceit from someone with the title “spymaster”.

His fingers fumbling with exhaustion at the memory, he slipped a yellowed note out of the front pocket of his jacket. The last correspondence Dean had had with the Empress before her death.

Dean, if only there was someone else I trusted to send, so that you could remain near – but there is no one else, and the Spymaster was right to insist that I send you. The plague has taken so many, and we must find a cure. When you are near my heart is at peace. Sammy and I will count the days until you return. Hurry home, and bring good news.

His eyes stung. If only you had known. I should have known.

I should never have left. The plague can rot the city for all I care. I should never have left you and Sammy.

Poor Sam. The young prince regent was barely a man, having just turned eighteen a week prior. The celebration must have been wild: all the most beautiful girls in Dunwall crowding the palace to get a good look at their future Emperor. At imperial parties, the wine always poured like the waters of the Wrenhaven: unending and chilled to the last drop. Dean had always loved the parties, and wished that he had been back sooner to enjoy the prince’s celebration.  

The assassin beside the leader, the one that had plunged a blade into the Empress’ heart had managed to grab the tall boy just as Dean had finished killing two of the other hooded cronies. Dean lunged, but the masked assassin thrusted a hand in his direction, and he was lifted into the air by an unseen force. His vision blurred blue and white, and all he could do was watch as the two people he had been charged to protect most in the world were taken from him, right before his eyes.

Empress and Prince. Dead and gone, respectively.

“Can do anything right, can you Winchester?” He growled, his eyes stinging.

A guard banged his sabre on the iron bars of the former Lord Protector’s cell. “Knock it off, asshole. Not all of us are getting beheaded on the morrow. Some of your fellow criminals might want a bit of shut eye.”

Dean didn’t respond, rolling his eyes at the tall-hatted officer.

“Dinner’s coming by soon. Not that you’ll need it,” the guard mused, spinning his blade and sticking it back into the strap at his hip.

If I could get one of them, breaking out of here couldn’t be that hard, Dean thought sardonically. Not that I’d have any life to go back to. Took that from me. The name I’ve fought to make for myself, what little bit of honor I managed to salvage for myself and my position…gone.

A moment later, a tray appeared beneath the door to his cell.

“Eat up,” the guard called through the bars.“this meal comes from a friend.”

She winked, moving along down the cellblock.

Dean swallowed a lump in his throat. He slowly eased from his seat atop the bucket, making his way towards the tray skeptically. Beneath a dark-looking crust of bread peeked a corner of parchment, and something glinting in the dim light of the fluorescents.

He discarded the bread, reading the parchment’s neat handwriting quickly.

Dean,  
Who we are is irrelevant right now. Just know that we have faith in you.

Here is the key to your cell. Once you’re out, head for the prison’s Seized Belongings room. Take the explosive there and plant it on the outer door. When the bomb goes off, run. Make for the river and lose yourself in the sewers. Someone will meet you on the other side.

One of the prison guards will leave a weapon just outside your cell.

And good luck. We need you alive and well for what’s to come.

―A friend.  
“Man, everybody just loves sending me letters,” he mumbled, tucking that note into his pocket along with the Empress’ letter. “I must be the most popular girl in class.”

“Nah, buddy. That’d be me.” A voice croaked from across the cell block. Dean narrowed his eyes, peering into the cell opposite his own. A thin young woman huddled at the far corner of the cell, brown eyes wide. Her matted hair was flaming red, balled into a matted bun, and the prison garb each inmate wore hung loosely from her frame.

Dean cocked his head, slipping the key that had come with the note further into his pocket. “You sure about that, sweetheart?”

The young woman stood up, walking slowly towards the bars of her cell. She cocked her head at Dean.

“Lord Protector, I assume? No, you’re right. You might be prettier than me after all,” she mused, eyes traveling up and down Dean’s body. “Not that I’m into men. I’m not. Don’t get fresh.”

Dean chuckled, raising his hands into the air halfheartedly in surrender. “Wasn’t planning on it. Long distance relationships can be tough.”

She nodded, grinning widely. “Especially if you’re dead. Which I hear you’ll be within the next twenty-four.”

“Yeah, thanks for the reminder. Really needed that.”

“But if I heard correctly, whatever thing your friend slipped you is your ticket out of this dump. I want in.”

“I don’t even know who you are, I’m not gonna bust some random chick out of jail. You could be a murderer for all I know.” He said incredulously, hurriedly adding “Uh, not that anyone–uh, slipped me anything. That’d be insane, and, uh, criminal.”

The redhead chuckled. “Nobody gets in here for being not-criminal, Lord Protector. And the name is Charlie. Charlie Bradbury. I’m assuming you’ve heard of my gang?”

Dean nodded, fighting the urge to fidget. “The Dead Eels are pretty notorious as far as organized crime goes. At least you’re not a mass murderer.”

“What, like they’ve got you all painted up to be?” Charlie asked with a raised eyebrow.

Dean narrowed his eyes, sticking a finger through the bars at the girl. “That wasn’t me. I didn’t do that. The spymaster and a troupe of Assassins killed her.” he gripped the bars with both his hands, his grip tightening with each word. “Right in front of me, and I couldn’t stop them.”

“And how long ago was that?” Charlie asked, her eyes on the table just to the left of Dean’s cell.

Dean sighed, his hands drooping from their grip on the bars. “Six months ago.”

“Bummer. That really sucks, dude. I mean it.” Charlie said, her tone sympathetic. “But come on, you’ve got to want to get out of here, and if you don’t, you die tomorrow. No questions asked. They’ve been blaring it over the loudspeakers all week: where to go for the execution, what time, who’s qualified to see your head roll across the yard. Look, this is your last chance to set things right, to put the spymaster and everyone who conspired against the Empress and Dunwall right where they belong. The grave.”

“Sounds easy when you say it like that,” Dean mumbled. “Just break out, kill everyone.”

“I know you’ve probably lost hope, and I also know you’ve got a key in that sleeve of yours. Also, you’re a shitty liar. But you’ve got to have something to live for…?” Charlie sighed. “What about your brother?”  

Dean closed his eyes. It would have been so much easier, to tune this girl out and just wait out the night for the guards to escort him to his execution. It would have been child’s play, to tune her desperate pleas out. He was good at ignoring people. But once she brought up Sam, he broke.

“…You don’t know where he is, do you?” Dean asked cautiously. “Get any news from outside?”

Charlie shrugged. “Last I heard, the prince regent was still awol. Kidnapped by who knows, being locked away god knows where.”

Dean nodded. It was the answer he was expecting, but it wasn’t the one he was hoping for.

“So what do you say? Do it for Sam?” Charlie asked, a lopsided smile spreading across her face.

Dean ran his hands through his hair, weighing his options. Die, live. Live, die.

Charlie’s eyes flicked to the end of the hall, and the sound of a closing door. “Better decide quick. They’re switching shifts. If you were going to move, now would be the time.”

Dean snarled, shoving the key into the lock on the outside of the door, twisting his arm awkwardly to get at the right angle. “Fine.”

Click.

He pushed his way through the barred door, his bare feet soundless against the concrete floor as he moved across the hallway.

Charlie nodded vigorously, her eyes flicking from one side of the corridor to another. “Hurry, hurry…” she whispered, as Dean fumbled with the lock.   
Click.

“Fucking finally,” Charlie said, emerging from the darkness of her cell and blinking in the light of the fluorescents. “Don’t suppose they sent you anything else?”

“They said there’d be a weapon outside my cell. Look, there,” he said, gesturing at the table next to his cell. A silver sabre glinted on the table’s surface, identical to the kind all guards carried.

Charlie nodded. “Ah, sweet. I call it!”

Dean grabbed the knife. “Absolutely not. It was delivered to me, jackass.”

Charlie shrugged. “Fine. I don’t need knives to kill people anyway.”

Dean shook his head, peering off down the hallway. He had heard much of the Dead Eels gang, how they had been powerful even before the plague took such a hold of the city. Their methods were often unpleasant, and Dean had no doubt that the skinny girl before him had the ability to kill him with her bare hands.

Charlie cracked her knuckles. “All right, let’s break out of this damn pit.”

____________________

Twenty minutes and three unconscious guard later (Dean had insisted on knocking them out instead of killing them) the two had managed to break into the room labeled “Prisoner Belongings” and in a smaller, newer plaque beneath it “No Looting”. Dean and Charlie dug through crates of clothing, weapons, flasks, and rotting food.

“It’s kind of sad, isn’t it?” Charlie said from across the room, a leather notebook in her hand. “All records of a life cut short.”

“Yeah, cut short by crime,” Dean grumbled, still searching for half of his belongings. He had managed to find his pants, boots, and scarf, but he was still missing his overcoat and hat. “Most people in prison are there for a reason.”

“That’s hypocritical.’ Charlie called, pulling a sword from a barrel. “You’re here, I’m here. This city is a lot more corrupt than you give it credit for, Lord Protector. I know, I’ve seen it. I am it.”

“Please, don’t call me that anymore. It’s who I used to be. Just call me Dean, okay?” Dean asked, letting the comment about corruption slide for now. We always knew there was an underbelly to the city, worked to keep people safe. But how bad could it really be, out there in Dunwall?  
Charlie nodded, pulling on a leather jacket. “Whatever. You ready to go yet?”

“Not yet. I need my–ah yeah. Yeah, baby.” Dean said, sliding the top off of yet another storage crate. Inside sat his brown brimmed western-style hat, his green overcoat (neatly folded, he might add) and beneath it all, his sword. The blade was carved from the bleached jawbone of a whale, polished to split a hair on one side, serrated with killer-whale teeth half way down along the other. The blade curved to end in a curved harpoon shape. Ah yes. He swung it experimentally, testing the weight of the weapon in his hand. Perfect.

He slung the coat over his shoulders, wrapped his scarf around his neck haphazardly and tossing his hat on his head.

Charlie snickered. “You look like you’re about to ride off into the sunset on a horse. And what the hell is going on with that knife?”

Dean worked hard to keep the hurt from showing in his face. “It’s a great sword! Made from the jawbone of an orca. Don’t make fun of it. My father gave it to me.”

“After one of his naval expeditions I assume? Oh, don’t look so shocked. Everyone knows about the lifestyles of the imperial and famous,” she said in response to his quizzical look. “And like it or not, your family was very much that. Your mom was the freaking Empress, for god’s sake.”

“Yeah. And now she’s dead. Thanks for the reminder.” Dean grumbled. “Come on, less talking, more escaping.”

“But, technically, you were the older brother. You should be the first in line to the throne, not Sam. It makes no sense for you to abdicate your claim, and choose to be the royal bodyguard instead.”

“Let’s just say it’s what was best for Dunwall.” Dean growled. “End of story. Got the bomb?”

Charlie nodded, waving the wired package. “Yeah, I got the bomb. It was in the corner. Where are we gonna put it, tragic backstory?”

Dean glanced at a map of the prison on the wall near the door. “We’re supposed to escape out the northern wall of the prison,” he tapped the blue lines corresponding to the wall on the map. ”Here, where we then jump into the river and escape through the sewers. That wall is up one flight of stairs, and through three rooms. A few guard patrols, I’m guessing but there might be a way to sneak around them. Follow my lead.”

Charlie nodded, and Dean buckled his blade into the scabbard on his back. He led the girl up the flight of stairs, peering into the stretch of rooms before them. One, two, three rooms stood between them and the northern wall, and Dean could see guards moving around control towers, cells, and switchboards.

Charlie cussed, and Dean signalled to a large grate in the floor, about twenty feet in front of them. The redhead nodded, and the two moved slowly, low to the ground, towards the vent.

Dean popped the grate up with the tip of his blade, gesturing to Charlie to jump in first, following her and pulling the grate shut as he fell.

They moved through the ducts silently, only a few feet from the surface level of the prison. Dean admired the leader of the Dead Eels as they crawled through the darkness; she sure knew how to move quiet, even weakened from a few months in prison. They passed beneath one, two, three, four, five guards undetected, finally reaching the vent closest to the wall. It was still about a thirty foot distance between the wall and the vent, just long enough to be spotted by the guards, even if they were sprinting.

Dean started to pry the vent from it’s place when Charlie stopped him. “Why don’t we just chuck it at the wall, then make a break for it when it explodes? We can just dive through the rubble to the river, right?”

He nodded slowly. It was a solid plan. “You move fast?”

She grinned, her eyes alight with mischief. “They don’t call us Eels cause we’re easy to catch, man.”

He took a deep breath, popping the vent up and off, swinging his arm back and tossing the bomb in the direction of the wall.

Please, Please, Please, Please…

With a massive burst of sound and smoke from the wall, Dean and Charlie scrambled from the vent, cutting across the debris and rubble of what remained of the wall. The shouts of outraged guards behind him quickened his pace, sirens wailing and pistols firing. Dean saw Charlie pull ahead of him, hurdling out of the gaping hole in the side of Coldridge Prison. Dean followed, catching a glimpse of the gray skyline of Dunwall as he pitched, headfirst, into the Wrenhaven River.

He hit the water like it was flat, unforgiving cement, the cold black water surrounded him. The piercing wails of the alarms were muted by the cushion of icy water all around him.

It’s quiet. So goddamn quiet down here in the water. Up there is so noisy, it would be so easy to just drift off down this river. No more pain, no need to fight.

“Get up,” a deep voice whispered in his mind. He started. It wasn’t like his mental voice, the soundless thought that constantly cascaded throughout his mind, noticed or not. This voice was dark, reminding him of the texture of water over unpolished stones. Gravel, slicked with oil. Rough, but infused with intention and power.   
It spoke again. “You have work to do, Dean. I’ve not given up on you yet.”

What the…

“Swim. Up.” The voice commanded, and Dean’s limbs pushed the water of the river away from him, pulling himself up towards the light of the white sun behind the water, above the buildings, masked by the cloud covering that hung over the city constantly.

Dean’s head broke through the top of the water, and he gasped in the cool morning air. He was a few feet from a stony ledge jutting out over the river, where Charlie sat wringing out her hair. High above them both, on the cliff across the river, Dean could just make out the hole they had blown in the side of Coldridge.

“Not bad, eh? Was wondering if you were just gonna hang out down there with the river krusts.” Charlie called, waving Dean’s waterlogged hat in the air. Dean grinned, pulling his sopping body out of the water and rolling onto his back

“Woulda been easier, wouldn’t it?” Dean said, laying there for a moment before the chill of the stone beneath him brought him to his feet. He held out his hand for his hat after pressing the water out of his scarf.

Charlie didn’t meet his eyes. “I suppose, yeah. It’d be, you know, easier. But I just can’t imagine dying for anything less than what I believe in. Giving up just never seems to be an option.”

Dean shook his head ruefully, thinking back to the strange voice. “Yeah, apparently it’s not for me either. You coming into the sewers with me?” Dean asked, eyes traveling towards the door set into the rocky side of the Wrenhaven.

Charlie nodded. “Yeah, man. You can keep leading.”

Dean rubbed his eyes, slogging towards the metal door, and the sign above it reading “CIty of Dunwall Waterworks”

_______________________

“Ew. Smells like shit in here,” Charlie mumbled.

Dean rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I wonder why, smartie.”

She was right though; these sewers smelled worse than they should have. A lot worse. “Are they dumping bodies down here?” Dean asked in horror.

Charlie nodded. “They’ve been doing that for months. Rats carry this plague all around the sewers, around the city from those bodies. But I guess you knew that. You were assigned to see if the other cities had found a cure for this, right? That’s why you were out of the city for so long.”

Dean nodded, pushing along the raised platform above the drainage canal. Dead rats and empty bottles littered the pathway, Dean was careful not to touch them, but charlie kicked them out of the way as if they were trash.

“Then nothing? None of the other cities or countries had any idea how to get rid of this…this death cloud?” Charlie asked.

“No.”

“Balls.”

“Yeah.”

“…What did you tell your mom?” Charlie asked.

Dean sucked in a breath through his teeth at the mention of his mother. “I told Empress Mary what I told you. My findings were fruitless, and I was gone for weeks for no reason.”

“You know, for someone who wants to serve his country so badly, you act like you’re not really a part of your family.” Charlie said, stopping to pull a winch and open a gate.

Dean narrowed his eyes. “I don’t have to explain myself to you, or anyone. And I’m proud to serve my family.”

Charlie finished cranking the winch, the door before them leading into a slightly-darker passageway. “Proud enough to renounce your claim to the throne?”

Dean gritted his teeth. “Lay. Off. Charlie. I’m serious.”

Charlie raised her hands in submission. “Fine, fine, just makes no sense is all. I’ll leave you be, I promise.”

Shaking his head, Dean and Charlie continued through the sewers. The only light came from the few grates overhead, along with oddly-spaced fluorescent lights, the same kind as in Coldridge prison. They cast an otherworldly white glow on the sewer’s catwalk, illuminating the street signs placed at the intersections of tunnels.

“Okay, Barrowe Street…if we turn here, there’s gotta be an exit along the east back of the river. What do you think, Charlie? …Charlie?  He spun around, but the young woman had vanished. “Well, at least she can’t bug me anymore.”

Dean continued on, glad for the silence but lonelier for the loss of his companion. He had kind of liked the girl, even if she was a gang boss, and a notorious criminal. And a killer.

I’m underground now, he thought bitterly. Guess I’ll have to start making connections in all kinds of undesirable places.

He rounded a corner, stopping when he heard the sound of two voices echoed along the damp sewer walls. “Have you ever seen anything like it? Dropping bodies from cranes into the fucking river.”

Dean leaned back around the corner, peering down the underside of Barrowe Street. Two guards were shuffling along the catwalk loudly, ignoring the massive swarm of rats floating after them through the filth and garbage. To Dean’s horror, the rats started climbing on top of each other, reaching for the edge of the catwalk before sinking back into the slop below.

They’re plague rats. Dean saw it in their frenzied eyes, the way they reached out for human flesh. These rats were killers.

“Hey, at least we don’t have to deal with ‘em down here. There’s enough filth above and below the city streets, getting hard to tell the dif—AAAH! Outsider’s eyes!” the guard’s speech was cut off as the rats swarmed up onto the platform, digging their claws and teeth into the men’s ankles. The guards screamed in agony as the rats climbed up their bodies, tearing away fabric and flesh with every swipe and bite.

Dean leaned back around the corner, breathing heavily. The guards were gone, there was nothing to be done to save them. Maybe I could have warned them, he thought, his eyes catching on the thick pipes leading up and over the catwalk.

I’m not gonna be their next victim, at least, Dean thought, pulling his sopping body up and onto the pipes as the screams of the guards cut off with a gurgle. He crouched low to the pipes, following the flow of water along the underside of the street, the chorus of squeaks replaced with the softer, bone chilling sounds of the rats gnawing through bone.

Dean was no stranger to the plague. The rats had haunted his city for years, and his mother had insisted on being briefed by Chuck, her chief scientist and inventor.  Chuck worked furiously to discover as much as he could about the disease, working into odd hours of the night and performing experiments that, in peacetime, some might have considered inhumane.

Against all advice, Mary would even visit those citizens of Dunwall touched by the plague, back in the early days of the mysterious illness. She had held their graying hands as their eyes bled, promising that the government of Dunwall was fighting tirelessly to cure the disease. Dean had been at her side for every minute of it: the demonstrations on plague rats by the boggled scientists, the hushed conversations with her advisers, visiting the homes of those damned by the disease. Those victims should have smiled at the presence of their Empress, but they were beyond joy at that point

They had all died. Every weeper she touched passed away, along with half the population of their city. Dean and Mary stopped making house calls.

So he knew how quickly a swarm of rats that size could decimate a corpse. Two corpses would take them maybe another ten seconds before what remained of the two guards wouldn’t have been enough to send home to their wives in a box. He just hoped Charlie knew how to handle rats as well as she handled disappearing.

Thanking his stars that he wasn’t on that catwalk with those rats, he crept along the pipes, keeping above the sewage canal as best as he could. He dredged up a memory of a map of the city, trying to get an idea of where he had to go in order to make it out of these damn tunnels.

Right, Right, a Left, Straight on for about a half a mile….After another fifteen minutes of walking, his legs cramped from remaining in a squat for so long, he saw the endless darkness of the tunnel before him shimmer. Lighten, from black to less black to almost gray.

His pace quickened, and he stood up, abandoning his caution with a whoop. Daylight. He broke into a run, leaping from the pipes down to the catwalk, his coat flapping behind him as he ran. He could feel his hope returning as he moved closer and closer to the less-gray, lighter-gray, almost white, now blindingly bright sky above him. Sucking in a deep breath, Dean laughed, jumping into the air and clicking his heels together as he did.

“Well, aren’t you just jovial?” A voice drawled from beside him. Dean froze, his eyes adjusting to the light of Dunwalls gray sky. He had emerged  onto a rocky outcropping, the Wrenhaven river flowing along towards his right before curving into the sea before him. The source of the comment, and witness to his heel-clicking hoot, was a balding older man in a small, low passenger boat. His cheeks were red from the wind and his eyes creased in the corners, from squinting or smiling Dean couldn’t tell.

The man held a hand out to Dean, waving the escapee over to him. “It’s okay, boy. I’m a friend, the one mentioned in that letter. Jeez, they said you’d come out here, but I wasn’t really believin’. You break out of Coldridge, all on your own?”

Dean gave the man a firm handshake, his grin returning. “I did have a little help. And I sure as hell didn’t leave quietly.”

“Bobby Singer, at your service,” the man said, dipping his head. “Get in the boat, now, idjit, we’ll get you cleaned up and smelling less like a tank of whale oil yet.”

Dean nodded, stepping into the boat as it rocked in the black water, adjusting to his weight. “I’m Dean. Thanks for saving my ass, Bobby.”

Bobby nodded,  putting the boat into gear. They puttered along the shore, away from the sewers and the prison, the palace. Dean didn’t look back.

“So, uh, where are we headed, Bobby? I assume you’re working with a larger group…?” Dean asked, clearing his throat. Gulls soared overhead, their lonely calls interrupting the quiet hush of the sea lapping against the boat, the hum of the outboard motor.

“Yeah, you could say that. Large indeed,” Bobby mumbled, saying louder “I, and now you, work in the service of the Loyalist party. The last remaining citizens loyal to the true emperor, your brother Sam. Not that new Lord Regent Michael.”

Dean blinked. “Michael has declared himself Regent?”

Bobby rolled his eyes. “Until the awaited return of young Sam, last of the line of the Winchester royalty, the royal spymaster has assumed control of Dunwall, and by extension, Gristol.”

Dean cussed, and Bobby laughed. “Sailor’s mouth on you, boy. We’re gonna get along fine. And to answer your other question, we’re headed to the Loyalist headquarters. They’re all holed up in the Hound Pits Pub, right underneath the Lord Regent’s nose. Doesn’t know a damn thing.”

Bobby soon pulled the boat in close to shore, moving along a bed of tall blanched reeds. The line of reeds broke, and Dean got his first look at the Hound Pits Pub.

He whistled, letting his eyes run over the massive brownstone building. Three floors high and topped with a greening copper roof, the square building looked like it could have housed a sports arena. “This is a pub?” He asked in awe.

Bobby nodded. “Used to be one of the most successful joints in the city, way back when. Back when dogfighting was still in vogue, before the plague. No one has money to blow on shit like that these days.” He gestured to one of a few outlying buildings. “Used to shove the pooches in there, bet on which of the poor animals could rip each other’s throat out first. That’s how the joint got its name.”

Dean shrugged. He had never been one for dogs, but Sam went nuts over the damn things. If his brother heard that there had been dogfighting in his city, those responsible would never hear the end of it.

Bobby cut the engine, steering up to a short dock and securing the boat to the pier. “Anyhoo, looks like storytime’s over. Time for you to meet the boss. The guy who organized your rescue should be inside the pub.”

Dean nodded, shaking hands with the boatman again before stepping onto the dock. He had a feeling he would see Bobby Singer again very soon.

He trudged up the dirt pathway, the magnitude of his exhaustion suddenly hitting him like a brick wall. Oh, fuck. I broke out of prison today. I should be dead. Sure feels like it.

Putting his hand on the brass knob of the Pub’s door, he stepped back as the door swung outward, revealing a tall, broad-shouldered man in a naval uniform. Salt and pepper stubble darkened his jaw, and dark shadows curved beneath his eyes. Four stars adorned his uniform. Admiral.

The man’s eyes crinkled as he smiled. “Dean!”

Dean blinked, staring into those familiar eyes, his mouth hanging open stupidly. “Dad?”


End file.
